


Patterns of Your Skin

by wonderlandiscrumbling



Series: A Friend in Need [6]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Abstract, Drabble, F/M, Intimacy, Kissing, mildly sexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-11 02:07:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16466654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderlandiscrumbling/pseuds/wonderlandiscrumbling
Summary: She's gentle and soft, she's warm and alive. She's here with him and often he feels its a dream or a reality he is not deserving of.





	Patterns of Your Skin

Soft hands touch over skin, trace over lines and scars and countless freckles. He’s so young, only in his mid-twenties, but his body is a map of scars and time wearing down on a pallid complexion. Her lips are soft, open mouthed kisses and damp hot breath trailing along his prominent collar bones. He shivers, eyes closing and head leaning back against the headboard. His own hands shake, his fingers are calloused and the slightest bit sweaty as he ever so lightly trails his fingertips alone her back tracing along the curve of her spine. Her skin isn’t scarred, time and the world hasn’t cruelly mangled her, not yet. He moans and blushes as teeth scrape along his skin sending a shiver down his spine. Her teeth are close to perfect, a gap in the front top two, a gap he loves, and that she often tries to hide. He pets his fingers through her hair, it’s soft like silk and smells of vanilla. She’s soft and warm, she’s real and he feels her bare breasts press against his naked stomach and he swallows hard. She feels him tense, lovingly caresses his side and whispers against his chest that it’s okay. They can stop. They don’t need to go further than this.

He opens his eyes and looks down at her, she glances up looking at him through thick black lashes with her brilliant brown eyes that most nights tend to look nearly black. He touches his knuckles against her cheek, she turns her head and kisses his hand. Red lipstick stains his hand, his torso is littered with these red sticky stains, it makes him think of every day he’s been splattered with blood. Sometimes his own but mostly the blood of others. His touch is gentle, she holds his wrist and begins kissing each of his fingers then his palm, her lips brush against his wrist and he knows she can feel his pulse thrumming, feel he’s alive the way he can feel that she is as well. 

Her lips are against his again, she’s settled on his lap and his hands are on her hips. His touch is the slightest bit less shy as he lets his fingers brush against her skin. She touches him often, always touching. Holding his hand or leaning her head on his shoulder, it doesn’t matter; it’s as if touching him makes her feel good and secure. He thinks of dead loved ones, thinks of the people who have died in his arms and tightens his grip on her, pulls her warm body close against him.

She’s alive. He worries it won’t last long. This city takes people from you, breaks hearts and drives men to drink and to put guns to their own heads. 

She’s biting and tugging his bottom lip, black painted nails scratch against his chest and she’s looking at him again. She rests her forehead against his and stares into his eyes. He knows she can see his hesitance, sense his fears and his worries. He worries, and he fears that she’ll grow tired of waiting, that he won’t be what she needs or what she wants. He stammers and attempts to apologize, to explain and to excuse like he often does, but she places her index finger against his lips shushing him. She kisses his forehead then moves off him. She lays by him in bed, looks at him expectant and soon he’s laying there facing her.

He can hold her, can feel her warmth and the beating of her heart. She hides her face against his chest and he holds her closely as if protecting her from monsters that lurk in the corners of her apartment, protecting her from himself. He is a killer after all. Yet she finds comfort in him. She loves him and she tells him so often ever since this began. She nuzzles against him, traces patterns on pale freckled skin. He kisses the top of her head and reminds her again that she is loved, she’s his, and he’d die before he allowed anybody to harm her. She knows this, but often he doubts it’s the truth.


End file.
